Ascendants of Ancients Sovereign - By Phillip Jones Page 0,11

a great room where the kitchen and living room flowed into each other. Her sense of taste was impeccable: granite countertops from Africa, top-of-the-line carpet from Europe, imported tile from Spain, and three styles of trim to complete the vision.

But tonight, as she turned on the lights, the color of the walls seemed dull. She stopped to take note. As she did, the temperature throughout the home dropped further at a rapid pace for no apparent reason.

“Sam Hill,” she whispered. Shalee headed out of the kitchen and rushed for the closet near the front door to grab a coat, but before she could cross the room, an immense pain surged through her body.

Shalee collapsed. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of a tiny figure out of the corner of her eye, but before the image became clear, her head collided with the edge of the coffee table. The glass surface shattered, almost knocking her out.

Struggling to pick herself up, a steady stream of blood poured from the laceration on the left side of her forehead. Her fear heightened as her mind filled with a sense of helplessness. The red liquid pooled on the floor, her arms trembled, and the room started to spin. Shalee slipped into unconsciousness as the red eyes of the being she never clearly saw faded into darkness.

A tiny squat of a man sat on the sill of a window. No more than two feet tall, his eyes burned red, and his teeth ended in razor-sharp points. He laughed as he dropped from the sill and knelt in front of the fireplace. After dislodging the valve on the gas line, he waddled across the room, jumped up and landed into a seated position on Shalee’s stomach.

“Your wish is granted, my lady,” the dwarf chuckled. “I wonder why the Collective chose you? I bet he had something to do with this.” Wiping the blood off her face, he critiqued her beauty. “You don’t appear to be special.”

The dwarf reached out and played with Shalee’s lips like she was his puppet. “Thank you for stealing me on my birthday, Mr. scary dwarf-man,” he made her say. “This is the best birthday ever!”

After amusing himself for a bit longer, the dwarf refocused. “No matter his intentions, I shall discover the truth of your function soon enough. You must be more to him than a baby maker.”

Leaning forward to touch Shalee’s chin, her body vanished. The dwarf’s eyes flickered, and the home exploded. Laughter was all that was left behind as the neighborhood shook. Shalee would be left in a coma and placed in storage for later use.

The Home of George Nailer

Orlando, Florida

GEORGE NAILER, AN ATHLETIC, clean-cut, blue-eyed man was sitting on the bed next to his sleeping daughter as he ran his fingers lovingly through her hair. She was his everything. They had spent the day going from store to store looking for the cupcake maker she had been asking for over the last month.

George tried to be the father he had always wanted for himself. He loved his daughter to the best of his ability. She was the only person he had never lied to, scammed, or manipulated. He may have been scum, but this little girl was his shining light to goodness.

He named her Abbie, which means “my father’s joy” since that was how he felt on the day she was born. Her five-year-old heart was angelic, and he loved her cute, little smile. Yes, he was wrapped around Abbie’s little finger. She knew how to reel him in whenever she wanted something, and though he would never admit it, all she had to do was ask, and she would get anything she wanted.

Growing up as the only child of a cruel father, George’s life was filled with constant beatings and sexual abuse. He had been forced to fight his way through childhood just to survive. Even getting food was a challenge since his parents wasted most of his father’s paychecks on their nasty habits during regular visits to the local drug dealer.

George knew he was emotionally scarred, and at the early age of 10, he turned to hustling to acquire the things his mother needed. He perfected his skills of manipulation to help her pay the rent, yet despite his best efforts, his mother often wasted the money on her habit. It was not her fault. His father was to blame for her addiction—everything was his fault.

The past played with George’s head. His life was like